The Last Lullaby

by Carin Gerhardsen

  ‘Do you think he was?’

  ‘I’m convinced he was. Einar lives on nothing. Each month, anything left over after he’s paid for his own and his wife’s housing goes to Catherine Larsson. He sold his townhouse in Huddinge in the spring of 2006, right before Catherine bought her apartment.’

  Hamad looked at him with alarm.

  ‘But what about his wife? She must have noticed that two million kronor was missing from the bank account?’

  ‘She doesn’t live at home. For at least ten years she has been living in a nursing home, which is also paid for out of Einar’s police salary.’

  ‘So Einar is living a double life! Who would have thought … But that explains his secrecy in any event. And his gloominess.’

  Sjöberg happened to think just then of Sandén’s account of how the preschool staff viewed ‘Erik’.

  ‘He plays ball with the children …’ he blurted out.

  Hamad looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Einar was happy with Catherine Larsson,’ said Sjöberg. ‘The children loved him. What went wrong?’

  They had avoided the core issue for long enough now. Hamad did not mince his words.

  ‘Do you think it was Einar who murdered them?’

  Sjöberg thought for a while before he answered.

  ‘What do you know about people actually? Most murders happen at home, behind closed doors. I find it extremely hard to see Einar as a merciless child-killer. But I have to admit that I have almost as much difficulty seeing him as a conscientious father.’

  Hamad nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘With two wives as well,’ he added.

  ‘Are you criticizing him for that?’

  ‘Well … No, not if the wife has been sick as long as you say. What is it that’s wrong with her?’

  ‘I’ll have to find that out. I’m going to Arboga tomorrow morning.’

  Sjöberg made the decision as he said it.

  ‘Arboga?’

  ‘The home where she is being treated is outside Arboga,’ Sjöberg clarified. ‘And Christer Larsson’s first wife lives there and I can’t get hold of her by phone.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we focus on finding Einar?’ Hamad said.

  ‘Absolutely. That’s the point of the trip. I can imagine a number of different reasons why Einar is missing.’

  He tempted his young assistant and Hamad obligingly took the bait.

  ‘He may have murdered Catherine Larsson and her children and fled. The wife may be able to tell us something that will help us find him. Or understand him.’

  Sjöberg nodded approvingly, and Hamad continued his speculations.

  ‘Christer Larsson may be the murderer. Then it’s probable that this is a classic crime of passion. Einar may be … hard to find. You’ve met Christer Larsson, do you think he’s capable … ?’

  ‘He’s depressive. Lives alone, and lacks an alibi for the night of the murders. He’s a real strapping fellow; Einar would not have much of a chance against him. I have to get hold of Larsson’s ex-wife.’

  ‘He has no criminal record,’ Hamad interjected.

  ‘Neither does Einar.’

  Hamad raised an eyebrow but refrained from commenting. ‘If it’s Einar who did this, as you said, he’s had four days to get out of the country,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I don’t think he has the financial resources,’ said Sjöberg. ‘He’s already skimping on food. But I’ll look into his finances immediately.’

  ‘You already seem to know a lot,’ Hamad said.

  ‘As I said, I’ve made certain investigations.’

  ‘Nice anyway that he doesn’t abandon his lawful wife. Especially since he’s met another woman.’

  ‘Or cowardly. Jamal, you call in the others for a meeting at five o’clock. Rosén too, say it’s important. Don’t mention this yet; we’ll let them carry on unbiased with what they’re doing for the time being. And then you’ll arrange a search for Einar.’

  ‘As a suspect?’

  Sjöberg looked at Hamad with ice in his gaze.

  ‘As a missing person.’

  * * *

  Just before five they came back to the police station for the meeting that Hamad had called. Sandén stopped inside the doors to brush off the snow he had brought in with him on this unpredictable March day. Westman strode purposefully over to the reception counter as soon as she saw that Jenny was there.

  ‘I heard you’re going to have a visitor this evening,’ she said, getting straight to the point.

  ‘Yes,’ Jenny answered naively. ‘Jamal is coming to see me.’

  Sandén tried to get rid of the damp snow in his hair by shaking his head, to Lotten’s amusement, in an almost dog-like way.

  ‘I would advise you against that,’ said Westman.

  Jenny looked at her with surprise.

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  Lotten was laughing loudly at Sandén, which made him ham up his performance even more.

  ‘It’s a bad idea,’ Westman continued. ‘He’s not a good guy.’

  ‘He’s not?’

  ‘No, it’s best that you look out for yourself.’

  Sandén was done with his one-man show and barged over to reception.

  ‘But why? What has he done?’ Jenny wanted to know.

  Petra Westman leaned a little closer and said, ‘He eats girls like you for breakfast.’

  Whether it was down to this information or her father’s boisterous arrival was hard to say, but a little smile spread across Jenny’s face.

  ‘That’s harsh,’ Sandén said with a laugh. ‘Don’t listen to what she says, honey. She’s our tattletale here at the station.’

  He cast a glance at the big clock on the wall.

  ‘Forty seconds until show time, Westman. We’ll have to make it snappy.’

  * * *

  ‘The investigation has taken an unexpected turn.’ Sjöberg opened the meeting.

  It was a quarter past five and in the middle of the table in the blue oval room was a tray of sandwiches that Jenny had set there a few minutes earlier.

  ‘Help yourselves, by the way,’ said Sjöberg, gesturing towards the baguettes.

  He himself felt on the verge of nausea and contented himself with the bottle of mineral water he already had in his hand, but his colleagues fell on the food with pleasure.

  ‘First I just want to hear if anyone has anything. Petra and Jens?’

  ‘Catherine Larsson was involved in cleaning in this country, nothing else,’ said Petra Westman.

  ‘And she did it masterfully, according to one of the customers we talked to,’ Sandén added. ‘She got ninety kronor an hour and it seems she could have been working up to thirty hours per week. That’s 2,700 kronor cash in hand a week. Good money, but not enough for an apartment in Hammarbyhamnen.’

  ‘Nothing strange about the customers,’ continued Westman. ‘They are rather spread out in Stockholm and the suburbs, seemed quite normal, were dismayed by what had happened. We should check the families against the crime register, but there’s nothing suspicious so far. None of them knew anything significant about her on a personal level.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Sjöberg. ‘Continue with the customers and run them through the register. Despite what I’m going to tell you now.’

  A sudden tension became perceptible in the room. They all stopped chewing and Sandén straightened up in his chair. Westman stroked a strand of hair back behind her ear. Hamad set his sandwich to one side on the table and crossed his arms over his chest. Rosén looked up from his notepad. Everyone’s eyes were directed towards Sjöberg.

  ‘Jamal has made another visit to the Larsson children’s preschool,’ Sjöberg began. ‘The mysterious “Erik” has now been identified and it seems probable that he was the one who bought Catherine Larsson’s apartment.’

  Sjöberg paused briefly before continuing. All that could be heard in the room was the faint hum from the ventilation system.

  ‘What I
am now going to say is very sensitive information and I want you to treat it as such. It is confidential and I want all of you to keep it between these walls until we know more. The case should also be handled without prejudice and professionally, as always. This is completely independent of any conception you might have personally.’

  You could have heard a pin drop. Sjöberg clasped his hands in front of him on the table and let his gaze wander over his listeners, as if to take in their unspoken promises of respect and professionalism.

  ‘Catherine Larsson’s benefactor is not actually named Erik,’ said Sjöberg. ‘His name is Einar Eriksson.’

  No one moved or said anything for several seconds. Then Rosén dropped his pen on the table and leaned his long body back in his chair. Hamad reached for his ham and cheese sandwich and brought it to his mouth. Westman shook her head and gave Sjöberg a look that seemed to ask him to take back what he had said. Sandén spoke for all of them.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he said simply.

  Sjöberg let the news sink in for a while before he spoke again.

  ‘We have the following facts: the murders of Catherine Larsson and her children were committed some time between Saturday evening and Sunday morning. Some time around then Einar also disappeared. He has been married to Solveig Eriksson since 1976 and she is in Solberga, a nursing home in Fellingsbro, just outside Arboga. She has been cared for there since 1977, for what reason we don’t know. According to one of Einar’s neighbours, he drives off in his car every Saturday morning and does not come home until late in the evening. I have verified with the nursing home that Solberga is where he goes. Every Saturday he sits by his wife’s sickbed. In addition he always spends Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve and her birthday there. Like clockwork. The neighbour did not see him return last Saturday, but early the next morning his car was in its spot again, so he must have. He has not picked up Sunday’s paper from the hall floor. That’s what we have to go on.’

  Rosén, Westman and Sandén were diligently taking notes. Hamad devoted himself to his sandwich.

  ‘Concerning the financial aspect, the monthly deposits of 5,000 kronor to Catherine Larsson’s account tally with withdrawals made by Einar. The apartment purchase itself was financed by money that Einar got when he sold the townhouse in Huddinge where he lived until April 2006, that is, right before Catherine Larsson’s apartment transaction took place. Almost all of Einar’s salary has gone to cover the Larsson family’s needs and to pay for his wife’s nursing home. The little that was left over has gone on food and lodging for himself. That’s what we know. Comments?’

  Three voices tried to make themselves heard at the same time, but Sandén’s was strongest.

  ‘How did you arrive at this?’

  ‘Jamal recognized the jumper in the apartment and connected it to Einar. The preschool staff identified Einar from a photo. Forensics will now investigate the hair strands and so on to produce more objective evidence that the green jumper is Einar’s.’

  ‘Is it possible that the Larsson children are actually Einar’s?’ asked Rosén.

  That thought had not occurred to Sjöberg.

  ‘Naturally there is that possibility,’ he replied. ‘I’ll consult with Bella when we get the results of Christer Larsson’s paternity test. If he isn’t the father of the children, we’ll test Einar. Hadar, I want you to issue a warrant to search Einar’s apartment. Jens, you will conduct the search, together with Petra. Don’t forget the car, it’s in the car park outside the building. You’ll have to take the opportunity to question the neighbours too, when you’re there. The ones who live in the same building will be enough. We are especially curious to know whether anyone saw him come home with the car on Saturday evening or if anyone saw him take off again. All shoes in the apartment should be sent immediately to Bella for comparison with the prints at the crime scene. Also material for comparison of fingerprints. Take whatever seems appropriate: the book on his bedside table, if there is one.’

  Sjöberg tried to recollect whether he had seen any such thing, and decided that he would have remembered it if there had been. ‘Or a well-thumbed cookbook,’ he added to be on the safe side. ‘Jamal, you get to go through Einar’s computer. I’ll go to Arboga tomorrow morning to question Einar’s wife, Solveig, and Ingegärd Rydin, Christer Larsson’s ex. We won’t completely let go of the other threads, but the focus of the investigation will now be to locate Einar. His disappearance probably has major significance in this case.’

  ‘He’s either a murderer or murdered,’ Sandén clarified. ‘If he’s a murderer, he’s lying on the beach in Uruguay right now. If he’s murdered, he’s at the bottom of the Hammarby canal. Just as bloody impossible to find him, whichever it is. Is there a search warrant out for him?’

  ‘Since about an hour ago. As far as we know, he doesn’t have the means to spend a long time abroad, but you never know. Jamal, you also have the task of finding out whether he has left the country by air, train, boat or any other means that can be traced. And then I want you to monitor his bank account.’

  ‘Why would he call himself Erik in his relationship with Catherine Larsson?’ Westman asked.

  ‘Well, we can only speculate about that,’ Sjöberg replied. ‘For some reason he wanted to keep his identity secret. From her or from the outside world or both. For his wife’s sake, presumably.’

  ‘Everything around this relationship is secret,’ Sandén observed. ‘No phone call has ever been made between Einar and Catherine Larsson. And just look at the way the money was transferred from his account to hers. Completely impossible to trace. Yet he happily shows up regularly at the preschool.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we notify the press about this?’ the prosecutor asked.

  ‘I want to delay that for as long as possible. Out of concern for Einar.’

  ‘And if he’s the murderer?’ said Westman.

  ‘I prefer to see him as a victim until the opposite is proven. He’s a policeman. He has no record. How would you want to be treated yourself, in a situation like this?’

  Westman nodded thoughtfully and none of the others had any objections either.

  ‘Doesn’t he have any friends?’ Sandén ventured to ask.

  Sjöberg shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know Einar personally. If any of you know anything personal about Einar that might be of interest to this investigation, then you are more than welcome to tell me. Privately,’ he added, in order to further underscore the importance of loyalty to their colleague. ‘We’ll have to see what emerges from the search. Addresses, phone numbers, correspondence …’

  ‘Shouldn’t we question Catherine Larsson’s neighbours and Vida Johansson again?’ Hamad pointed out. ‘With respect to Einar, I mean.’

  ‘Absolutely. Above all we should question Christer Larsson again, but I want us to wait until I’ve talked with Ingegärd Rydin. Will you take on those interviews too?’

  ‘Sure. How long will you be away, Conny?’

  ‘I’m coming home as soon as possible. When I’ve done what I have to. No later than Friday afternoon. We’ll keep in regular contact.’

  Sjöberg stood up and the others followed his example. Petra Westman squirmed self-consciously as she closed her notebook.

  ‘You don’t think Einar is dead, do you?’ she said in a low voice, meeting Sjöberg’s gaze, her forehead in a worried crease.

  Despite the scraping of chairs against the parquet everyone stopped in mid-motion and all eyes were again directed towards Sjöberg. He straightened his back and pushed his chair in with such decisiveness that it slammed into the edge of the table.

  ‘He’s alive,’ he answered in a steady voice. ‘And he’s counting on us to help him.’

  * * *

  The sun had been out for a while, he was sure of that, because a little more light than usual had managed to make its way in through the narrow opening. Now that it was starting to get dark outside he could barely make anything out. He had managed to keep himself awa
ke ever since this morning. Not because existence had become more tolerable in any way, but rather because he longed so much for the night, when he hoped to be able to sleep for hours. True, it would be in ten-minute shifts, but still.

  Now he was leaning against the ice-cold outer wall, listening for sounds from outside. He heard the muffled bellowing of a fire engine, followed by sirens. To the sound of the emergency vehicles he rhythmically stretched the rope he had been tied up with as much as he was able. That is, almost not at all. The rope felt completely rigid and he was convinced that he was not making any progress. But what else was there to do? The slim hope that the stretching would give results by and by was what still kept him mentally strong. He could not bear to do any more; pain throbbed in every joint in his body and he was wet and cold right down to his marrow.

  He braced his toes against a crack between a couple of floorboards and managed to push himself up a little bit against the wall. It was enough to allow him to tip his frozen-stiff body down on to his knees. Then he let his body, his right shoulder first, fall against the floor. It hurt, but he tried not to attach much importance to the pain. He pushed with his bound feet against the wall, and in that way managed to move his cocoon-like body the short distance to the water bowl. With an effort he raised his neck enough to put his face to the water and lap up a few of the life-giving drops. Afterwards he was so exhausted by the exercise that he lay on his side and panted for several minutes. He could have fallen asleep any time now, but he staved it off for as long as possible. He wanted to keep himself awake for another few hours before he let himself sink into the sweet embrace of sleep.

  There was crunching under his head and when he had recovered he kicked himself away from the hard bread, just far enough away to be able to reach a piece with his mouth if he rolled over on to his stomach. The rapid movement that turning involved meant his right shoulder burned and he moaned in pain. Like a reptile he extended his tongue a few times towards the piece of bread, until it finally stuck enough to be pulled into his mouth. Carefully he lowered his head and chewed slowly with his forehead against the floor, before he bent his neck back and swallowed.